Prologue

A Long, Long Time Ago.....

 She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. The train was running late. The longer it was delayed, the greater the chance he’d come here and try and change her mind. That prospect, while unlikely, was still possible. He could be so utterly charming and warm. Yet, she knew that wasn’t the entire man, however. Although he talked so little of his work, she knew enough that he had a steely side -- he had to, simply to survive the peril he had to be facing.

 The rumble of the train interrupted her thoughts. She took the cigarette and dropped it to the ground. Just as she turned to look at the train pulling up to the station, she heard the sound of dress shoes clapping against concrete.

 Clara Richards turned and, as she had feared, the delay had given Napoleon Solo enough time to dash from their apartment to the train station. He darted through the crowd, dodging, twisting and turning to avoid running into people. Yet, his eyes were trained on her the whole time.

 Clara took in a deep breath. God, this is harder than I thought it’d be.

 Solo circled around a couple oblivious to his movements before he finally caught up to Clara. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and stood for a moment, catching his breath. “Clara,” he said, still short of breath. “That note. What is this?”

 “It’s like the note said,” Clara said. “I’m leaving you. I-I.” She paused. “I was hoping to avoid this kind of scene.”

 “Clara, I love you. I thought...”

 “I do love you, darling. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

 “But why?”

 She fought back tears. She looked into the angular face, with clefted chin, the mole on her right. Not yet 25, Napoleon had the look of someone older, more composed than the average. There was something about him, and she had felt it from the first time they had met. But she also remembered, just a few weeks ago, when he came home limping after an assignment. The limp soon passed, but there were other scars that were fresh, and they would remain.

 “It’s no good, Napoleon,” she said. “I can’t live with the uncertainty of your work. The next time you went on assignment might be the last time I ever see you alive. I can’t live that way.”

 “Clara, it’s important work,” he replied. “I can’t just give it up.”

 “Damn you, Napoleon, I knew you’d say something like that,” she said, her eyes beginning to well up. “You love your U.N.C.L.E. more than you do me.”

 “Clara that’s not true!”

 “Napoleon, in time you can live without me. I’m not so sure about your work. Good-bye.”

 She picked up a small suitcase and quickly jogged to the waiting train. Solo took a step to follow but held back. He knew she meant every word. Part of him wanted to rush in and take her out of the train, carry her out if necessary. But he wasn’t going to force her to do anything. He not only loved her too much to do that, he knew Clara Richards was too deliberate to do anything rashly. No, the warning signs had been there for some time, he realized, as the train began to pull away. He could only watch it slowly go down the tracks. In a minute or two, it was gone.

 Not much later, he emerged from the station into the bitter chill of a December day in New York City. Snow began to fall, gradually intensifying. Pedestrians began to quicken their steps, seeking refuge from the snow. But Solo walked slowly, not noticing the cold. He stopped at a newsstand, where the vendor poured coffee from a Thermos and gulped it down. He glanced at the date of the paper, December 22. It’s that close to Christmas? he thought. I hadn’t even had a chance to buy Clara a present.

 Solo looked up into the sky, all full of white from the falling snow.

 “Merry freaking Christmas,” he muttered to himself.

Act I

“Mr. Hemingway Gives Some Advice”

A Few Months Later

 The taxicab swerved suddenly so the driver could get to the specified address. The cabbie and his passenger were a study in contrast. The driver was big and beefy, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. The bespectacled man in the back seat wore a neatly pressed suit with sharp creases in his trousers. His mustache was also neatly trimmed. He gave an impression of a very precise man.

 “Here ya are, Mac,” the driver said.

 The passenger said nothing, instead glanced out at his destination. The stone building reeked of stuffiness. It was not his cup of tea, but he knew its familiarity was a source of comfort for his brother in law.

 Professor Elton Hemmingway gave the driver the fare, plus an ample tip and exited the cab. He went up a set of stairs and into the club’s entrance. As if on cue, a heavy-set man in formal dress approached him.

 “Are you a member, sir?”

 “No, just meeting one for lunch. That would be Alexander Waverly.”

 “Ah, yes. Mr. Waverly is in the drawing room. He mentioned something about waiting for a guest. Will you come with me, sir?”

 Hemingway followed the man into a massive room, lined with bookshelves that extended to the ceiling. He spotted his brother-in-law, an unlit pipe in his mouth, sitting in a leather-bound chair reading the most recent edition of The Sunday Times of London. There were a dozen or so other members in the room, but none were near Alexander Waverly.

 “Thank you,” Hemingway said to the man, who walked away quietly.

 Elton Hemingway approached Waverly, whose eyes were riveted to the commentary section. Not surprising, Hemingway though. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Alexander peruse the more feature-oriented sections of any newspaper.

 “You’re two minutes late,” Waverly said, not looking up from his newspaper.

 Hemingway wasn’t taken aback. He had known his brother-in-law long enough to know the mental games he played with acquaintances. I can imagine how he likes to unnerve his employees.

 “I only received your call last night, you know,” Hemingway said calmly. “You’re quite lucky I could arrange to come down from Boston on such short notice at all.”

 “Quite,” Waverly responded, finally putting down the newspaper. “And I do appreciate it.”

 “Let me guess. You’ve run into a spot of bother.”

 “Something like that,” Waverly said, frowning.

 “Ah well. The old saying. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Well, let’s have at it, then.”

 Less than  30 minutes later, Waverly was finishing a chef’s salad in the club’s dining room, while Hemingway picked at a chicken dish. A waiter came by to refill Waverly’s hot tea and when he left, Waverly spoke.

 “As you know, Elton, we’ve been having some troubles with the Soviets.”

 “Oh, yes,” Hemingway said. “They’ve resented how their manpower contributions tend to stay in and around Europe.”

 “Not that they’ve been generous in that regard,” Waverly said.

 “No, of course not. I suppose they prefer to keep their best and brightest with the KGB or GRU.”

 “Precisely. So we reached a compromise. I agreed to take on a Soviet man here in New York if I could have, as you put it, one of the best and brightest. And, two years ago, they agreed. He made it through the Survival School and has done some splendid work since.”

 “Since?” Hemingway said. “You mean he’s been here for a bit?”

 “Not yet,” Waverly said. “I had him temporarily assigned for several months in Europe awaiting transfer here. The problem is this new administration in Washington has been turning up the rhetoric with the Soviets. All of this is causing me tremendous headaches.”

 “Obviously, but you’ve navigated them before.”

 “This time, the problem is a bit stickier. I can’t leave the Soviet man over in Europe. The arrangements have already been made. He’ll report for duty the first of next week.”

 “So what is the problem?”

 Waverly reached into the breast pocket of his tweed suit and handed his brother-in-law a single sheet of paper. “Sort of a Cliff’s Notes version of his dossier. Incredibly brilliant, and quite capable. But also rather withdrawn. In Europe, he has been very much the lone wolf. It’s unclear how well he’ll work over here.”

 Hemingway said nothing as he scanned the paper. “Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin,” he said aloud after a long pause. “Studied at the Sorbonne, Cambridge. A much decorated officer in the GRU in a short amount of time. Huh.”

 “What’s that?”

 “There’s a bit of a gap, it would seem, in his record. About six months prior to being assigned to the U.N.C.L.E. Survival School.”

 “Yes,” Waverly said. “Our friends in Moscow are a bit cagey about that. I’ve heard from unofficial sources there was some sort of duty in Manchuria but I’ve been unable to find any details.”

 “Well, if Alexander Waverly can’t find out, it must be rather hush-hush. Well, looking over the gentleman’s record, I have to say you might be worrying too much.”

 “Perhaps. But it’s quite important to me that this succeed.”

 “Well, if the man in question seems withdrawn, the solution seems rather obvious to me,” Hemingway said.

 “Oh?”

 “Simple. Pair him with a more extroverted agent. Might draw the man out of his shell, so to speak.”

 “That may seem simple. Do you have anyone in mind?”

 “How about that Solo fellow you’ve told me so much about?”

 “Out of the question,” Waverly said irritably.

 “Now you sound like I’ve struck a bit of a sore point.”

 “Mr. Solo has his own set of problems.”

 “So have we all,” Hemingway said. “I seem to recall he helped smash some sort of Thrush cell in Hong Kong quite recently.”

 “Yes, but not before coming within a hair’s width of disaster. Mr. Solo has always been bold in his tactics. More recently, he is verging on recklessness.”

 “Is that so? The main thing I remember is that glowing report that Survival School chap -- oh, what is his name?”

 “Cutter.”

 “Yes, the report Mr. Cutter made when Mr. Solo graduated. He made it to the New York office in record time. I thought he had your confidence. What has changed?”

 “What else? A woman.”

 “Beg pardon?”

 “Early last year, Mr. Solo fell in love with a woman. They had moved in with one another. They were supposed to be married. But they broke up, just before Christmas. Or, rather, she left him. Apparently she had the good sense to realize U.N.C.L.E. agents aren’t good matrimonial material.”

 “Yes, something I’ve remarked on to my sister from time to time.”

 Waverly frowned momentarily and then continued. “In any event, I am beginning to have doubts about Mr. Solo.”

 “So, you really have two problems, eh?”

 “It wasn’t my intention to discuss Mr. Solo.”

 “Still, my suggestion stands. From this material, I gather Mr. Kuryakin, while an excellent operative, is fairly cautious and, personality-wise, a bit conservative. Perhaps Mr. Solo’s brashness will mix well, bringing out the best in both. In addition, you’d receive an additional bonus.”

 “Oh?”

 “By having a Soviet paired with an American, you can deflect criticism from both the United States and the Soviet Union. Clearly, Mr. Solo is one of your best operatives -- no matter what doubts you may have at the moment. Certainly, the Soviets can’t complain if their man is assigned to work with one of your best. Shared glory, and all that.”

 “If the pairing is a success,” Waverly interrupted.

 “The Americans, meanwhile, can’t complain about having a Soviet being assigned to the main office. You can always tell Washington you’ve got one of their own to keep an eye on him.”

 Waverly took a sip from his tea. He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “There may be some merit to your arguments.”

 ***

 Two days later, Napoleon Solo warily approached the office of the Number One of Section One. Solo had heard rumors that he had offended Waverly. Since being posted in the New York office, he had rarely seen the man. Most of his assignments had been relayed through higher ups in Section Two, the enforcement division. Oh, he occasionally spotted the old fox in the hallways, but Solo hadn’t dare say a word, not at this point. He had merely been happy to have been stationed so quickly in the top regional office of the organization. But if the rumors were true, that could change quickly.

 When he came up to the office, a tall brunette woman stood at a desk, her back to him. He tried to think. What was her name? Sarah, perhaps?

 The secretary turned. “Ah, Mr. Solo. You’re a minute or two early,” she said. “Go on in. Mr. Kuryakin is waiting. Mr. Waverly will be back in a minute.”

 Kuryakin? The Russian? Solo suddenly remembered another rumor. That they were, indeed bringing in a Soviet agent to work out of New York. Solo had been so preoccupied about his own standing, he hadn’t paid the rumor much thought.

 “Yes, thank you,” he said, no emotion in his voice.

 The sliding doors opened. At the round conference table, sat a short, skinny -- almost emaciated, Solo thought -- blonde man. He wore a plain black suit, white dress shirt and black tie. The Soviet turned, the blue eyes bore into Solo.

 “Hello. My name is Solo. Napoleon Solo.”

 “Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin,” he said, turning away.

 Solo walked up slowly and sat down. “You’re here to see Mr. Waverly also, I take it.”

 Kuryakin glanced back at Solo for a moment, then looked away. “So it would appear.”

 Solo frowned. Walls were better conversationalists than this man.

 “Been here long?”

 “I arrived yesterday.”

 The American made a quick, insincere grin, then adopted a poker face to match the Russian’s expression. Solo said nothing, but slowly began to drum his fingers on the conference table. Kuryakin looked down for a moment at Solo’s hand, then turned away again.

 The room stayed silent, save for the slow drumming of Solo’s fingers. He stopped, pondering whether to say anything else when they heard the sliding doors once more.

 “Ah, gentlemen, I see you’re getting to know one another,” Waverly said. “That’s good.”

 The two men stared at Waverly in unison. The U.N.C.L.E. chief ignored them and went up to the conference table. He extended his hand out to Kuryakin first. “Mr. Kuryakin, I’m Alexander Waverly.”

 “I, uh, know,” the Russian said.

 “Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, now extending his hand to the American. “I’ve seen you around, but I’m glad you could make it.”

 As Waverly sat down, the two agents glanced at each other for a second, then returned their gaze to their superior. Waverly wasn’t looking at them. Instead he was fumbling for his pipe and placed it in his mouth but didn’t light it. He then placed it down on the table.

 “Gentlemen, we’ve received some reports of a rather curious affair. Brazil. The rain forests of northern Brazil, to be more exact.”

 Waverly flipped a switch on a console in front of him. The wall opened up to reveal a map of the South American country. A spot was highlighted well inland from the Atlantic Ocean.

 “Evidently, along in here, there are reports of someone, or something, declaring the existence of a new country. Needless to say, the Brazilians are a bit upset about it.”

 “Succession movements and revolutions have occurred elsewhere,” Kuryakin said. Solo arched his eyebrows, but said nothing.

 “True enough,” Waverly said, playing with the pipe once more. “Except, in this instance no one has emerged to formally declare independence. The only information comes from natives of the area who’ve fled. Muttering some nonsense about the Squire, or some such.”

 “Squire?” Solo said.

 “It’s all too fragmentary to be very precise.”

 “Why not less the Brazilians handle it?”

 “It’s very difficult terrain to mount a military operation. Apparently the, eh, rulers of this new nation do have access to some military hardware. It could be quite a bloody affair. The authorities have agreed to have U.N.C.L.E. take a look, to get a full measure of what’s happening there. So I’ve selected you two.”

 Solo’s eyes darted between the Russian and Waverly. “Why us, sir?”

 “Why not?” Waverly said testily. “Mr. Cutter gave you high marks, so high you were stationed here in New York almost immediately upon graduation. The Soviets tell me that Mr. Kuryakin is quite a bright chap. I think between the two of you, you can execute a simply reconnaissance mission.”

 “Yes, sir,” Solo said, suddenly feeling six inches tall.

 “Mr. Solo, you’ll be the senior agent, given your longer tenure. But there will plenty for you both. You leave tomorrow. See Miss Johnson, she’ll provide you with your travel documents.  Now, run along. I have many other pressing matters.”

 The two agents got up and exited the room. Miss Johnson was standing there, airline tickets in hand. “You’ll be taking Trans Global Flight Sixty-Three to Rio De Janeiro, leaving at 9:15 tomorrow morning,” she said. “One night in Rio, then a special charter to fly up to the Amazon. You’ll receive your gear for traipsing about the rain forest then. The pilot will pass on more detailed instructions.”

 “I suppose we’ll need shots,” Solo said.

 “Go by the infirmary before you leave today,” she said. “Good-day gentlemen.”

 The two men started to walk away. “Interesting assignment,” Solo said. “Wonder what this Squire is.”

 Kuryakin said nothing, and went off by himself. Solo stared for a moment and shook his head.

***

 A few minutes later, Napoleon Solo sat down in the small office he normally shared with another agent. However, today, Solo had it to himself. The other agent had been killed while in Europe. There were no details available, but it was believed he was trying to ferret out a Thrush satrap. The empty chair was a silent reminder of the stakes. Then the telephone on his desk began to ring.

 “Solo here.”

 “Hey, you old son of a bitch,” said a voice with an exaggerated Texas accent. “How’s tricks?”

 “Sam Harris?” Solo said. “How’d you get this number.”

 “Hey, buddy boy, I’m a spy. A spook. A guy with a trenchcoat. We’re supposed to be ferreting out information, remember?”

 Solo smiled. “What’s the matter, Sam? Can’t take no for an answer?”

 “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re a dumb son of a bitch who picked that Boy Scout troop instead of here in Langley where the real action is.”

 The U.N.C.L.E. agent could envision the Texan, with his close-cropped hair, plastic glasses and good-old-boy manner. Harris had made a strong pitch for Solo to join the Central Intelligence Agency and poured on the charm. But Solo had chosen U.N.C.L.E. He felt U.N.C.L.E. could somehow make a difference by not being tied to a single nation’s interests. Harris blew up but was now acting the good old boy again. Solo mentally put himself on guard.

 “Well, we all make mistakes,” Solo replied.

 “So, is true you’re getting a Ruskie?”

 “I don’t know what you mean.”

 “Napoleon, you are one smart fella, quick with a gun, probably quicker with the women but you haven’t yet mastered the art of lying,” Harris said. “The buzz around Langley is the old man who runs your main office in New York finally agreed to take on a Soviet.”

 “What am I? A bulletin board?”

 Harris chuckled. “Thanks for the confirmation, you old son of a bitch.” The call disconnected before Solo could say more.

 The agent stared at the receiver for a moment. In his short time at U.N.C.L.E., Solo had worked with agents from a variety of countries. But never someone from the Eastern Bloc. “Great. Now I’m a guinea pig,” he said as the replaced the receiver.

***

 Rita Verde emerged from the shack, stretched and smiled. While the rain made the air thick with moisture, the sun made up for it. She grabbed her back pack and put it on before her daily mile and a half walk to the village.

 As Rita made her way on the trail, she looked into the forest. She had been here over a year but the sight of it did not bore her in the least. Although born in South America, she had been adopted as an infant and grew up in the United States. This land was as foreign to her as to anyone raised in the U.S.A. And as beautiful. When she had joined the International Volunteer Corps right out of college, she had initially blanched at finding out where she’d be stationed.

 “Rita, they’re very poor down there. It’s not like there isn’t a need,” the agency representative said. “Where’d you think you were going? Paris?”

 “Wouldn’t have been a bad start,” she replied sheepishly. “It’s just, well. This area is awfully isolated.”

 “You’re smarter and tougher than you know,” the man had said. “You’ll see.”

 Rita smiled at the memory. She was only 23, but felt she had grown up a lot this past year. The agency representative was right. Rita had discovered more about her own abilities -- helping women nurse their children, helping farmers to conserve their soil, distributing much-needed medicine -- than she ever guessed she possessed. Rita had at least another year to go and intended to make everything of it she could.

***

 At the edge of the village, Pablo Escabar could see the short Norte Americano with the almond colored skin approach. He had a crush on the woman. In particular he adored her round face and bright smile. Pablo, nearly 18, was sure he was in love.

 “Pablo!” Rita said in Portuguese. “How is everything?”

 “Quite well,” he said, his stomach starting to flutter.

 “And how is Senora Puerte?”

 “I think her child is not having a good day. There is much crying.”

 “I had better look in on her. How are you?”

 “I am quite good, at least I am now.”

 Rita smiled. She recognized the look in his eyes. She didn’t want to encourage a case of puppy love, but she wasn’t going to be overly harsh, either. “Perhaps I will see you later, Pablo.”

 Pablo had a star struck look as she walked into the village. There were a dozen or so huts, their occupants engaged mostly in subsistence-level agriculture. It was one of several she visited on a regular basis, and the one she saw nearly everyday because it was so close to the shack she had built for herself. She knew the way to Senora Puerte’s dwelling and heard the crying of the baby well before arriving.

 Rita knocked on the door. “Senora. It’s Rita.”

 “Enter, please.”

 The baby’s lung power was enormous for someone so small. The baby girl’s cries filled the two-room hut.

 “Forgive me, Rita,” she said in heavily accented English. “Little Maria, she cries all day.”

 “Well, let’s take a look,” Rita said, looking at Maria’s face. The child’s mouth was wide open and Rita spotted the problem, right on the baby’s gums.”

 “Her first tooth is trying to come through,” she said. “It’s making her unhappy, but it should pass.”

 “Is there anything I can do to make her feel better?”

 Rita took off the backpack, placed it on the floor and kneeled over to rummage through its contents. She took out a small medical kit, opened it up and found one particular bottle with liquid inside.

 “This is aspirin, made  for children. I think this will help with the pain.”

 Rita measured the dosage carefully and squirted the liquid into Maria’s mouth as the baby continued to cry. A few minutes later, Maria stopped crying while her mother continued to cradle the child in her arms.

 “I think she will be better in a day or two,” Rita said. “I’ll come by again tomorrow just in case.”

 “You do more than you should already.”

 “Nonsense,” Rita replied. “Anyway, she should be getting some sleep. Perhaps you can get some rest, as well, until your husband arrives.”

 “Gracias.”

 Rita began to put the backpack on, when she heard a commotion outside. She exited Senora Puerte’s dwelling and saw several villagers standing, gaping at something. Rita hurried over, then her jaw dropped.

 A man on a horse was talking. He wore an outfit made of chainmail, looking like a modern-dress version of a knight.

 “...this village is now part of a new nation, and you are its subjects,” the man said in English with an British accent. “You shall now pledge all allegiance to the Squire.”

 Almost all of the gathered villagers were women, their husbands and sons were working in nearby fields. Rita worked her way to the front of the group. “What are you talking about? And what’s with that get-up?”

 “Listen little missy, you will talk only when you are recognized. I come in peace but that may change.”

 “Who do you think you are? King Arthur? These people are getting along pretty well without you, Sir Lancelot.”

 The chainmail man grimaced. The villagers were straining to hold back smiles.

 “I’ll remember you, missy. The Squire knows how to deal with insolence. He turned his horse around and rode off.

 The villagers laughed, watching the gringo ride off. But Rita did not. She had a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach that something was terribly wrong.

***

Act II

“A Rocky Start”

 Trans Global Flight Sixty-Three was three hours out of New York. Napoleon Solo’s back felt cramped and when he caught a glimpse of the first-class section of the cabin ahead of him, his back hurt even more.

 “Next time, I’ll handle my own travel arrangements,” Solo muttered to himself.

 He glanced to the Russian who dozed in the seat besides him. It was obvious that Illya Kuryakin was the type who could will himself to sleep, anyplace, anytime. Why not? Solo said. These are the fellows who do their survival training in Siberia.

 Just then, Kuryakin began to stir. “Are we there yet?” he said, his eyes squinting.

 “Hardly,” the American said coldly.

 Kuryakin frowned. He hadn’t expected to be welcomed warmly in his new assignment. But this Solo fellow seemed unusually hostile. It was as if he felt he had something to prove. Probably resents having to work with a Russian, Kuryakin thought to himself. International agency or no, U.N.C.L.E. employees are subject to the same prejudices as anyone else. For that matter, Kuryakin had not volunteered to do his U.N.C.L.E. duty in America. But he also knew his nation had been pressing for a presence in the primary regional office. It was a matter of Soviet pride.

 Kuryakin took a brief look at Solo. The American was like a tiger in a cage. He picked up a magazine -- yet again -- and paged through the periodical, but clearly fidgeting and not really reading it. Whatever was bothering the man, Kuryakin hoped he could put it aside when the time came. And, given the nature of the work, that time -- the unavoidable time when lives would be on the line, and decisive action would be taken -- had to be inevitable.

***

 The man on horseback had spent more than an hour on a narrow, rutted trail before he came to the clearing, and another twenty minutes after that. He looked upon the stone walls. It was frightening. He was glad he hadn’t been one of the peasants who had been “persuaded” to help build it.

 The large metal door opened and the rider nudged his horse forward. As he came into the courtyard, he saw the crew of natives laying the bricks to a building on the edge of the compound. He went past them to the main building, which lay in the middle of the grounds. The two-story structure, though recently constructed, had the look of something from the time of the conquistadors.

 Robert Blonston swallowed hard. The money from the Squire was good. But when he signed on, he did so as a mercenary. He hadn’t expected to wear this outfit. Although it looked like the chainmail worn by knights of the middle ages, it was made of a new, lighter-weight material. It provided protection in a fight -- most knives would not penetrate it, for example. Yet, it was light enough he could move fairly easily. It was one of the Squire’s many secrets.

 The Squire, Blonston thought. How would he react to this?

 Blonston dismounted and tied up his horse at a post. He then passed through the main entrance and came into the reception area. There, the Squire’s wife stood drinking tea, wearing a plain cloth dress. She maintained her figure well for a middle aged woman, but her eyes had a piercing quality that made Blonston nervous.

 “Oh my,” the Squire’s wife said, in a strong English accent. “You’re quite the striking young man.”

 “Thank you, ma’am.”

 “Edith, if you please.”

 “Uh, yes, ma--, er, Edith. Is the Squire around?”

 Edith sighed. “Oh, why do you all persist in being so businesslike?” She then turned back and yelled. “Emory! One of your Nottingham Guards is here.”

 Down a flight of stairs came a tall, middle aged man, with thinning hair and a beard. He wore an elegant suit, very out of place for the humid surroundings. But ever since Blonston had been recruited by G. Emory Partridge, the mercenary marveled at how his employer seemed relaxed no matter what the setting. It was as if the man never broke a sweat.

 “What is it?” Partridge said, with a hint of irritation. “I have a great many things to do.”

 “Beg pardon, Squire,” Blonston said. “While patrolling the borders of your, eh, new nation, I came across a village. But there was some sort of woman the inhabitants responded to.”

 “What do you mean, some sort of woman?”

 “She had the appearance of a native -- dark skin and eyes. But she talked like a Yank.”

 “And you did nothing with her?”

 “My instructions were only to read your proclamation. I had done so when she came on the scene. She can’t be a villager, so I thought I should check in for further instructions. It could be there are other foreigners nearby.”

 “I suppose that could be a reasonable course of action,” Partridge said, staring off to the side.

 “Emory,” Mrs. Partridge said softly. “You know...”

 Partridge looked again at Blonston. “Yes, I suppose he might do. Very well. Blonston is the name, isn’t it?”

 “That’s right, sir.”

 “Very good. This village. Where is it?”

 “About a 90-minute ride south, toward one of the tributary rivers. After you get past the clearing, it’s about an hour’s ride down a mostly narrow trail.”

 “Good. Be a good chap and go upstairs with Mrs. Partridge, won’t you?”

 “Sir?”

 “Go upstairs with Mrs. Partridge. I shan’t repeat myself again.”

 Blonston looked puzzled but Edith Partridge was beaming. She took him by the arm and led him up the stairs. “Dear boy,” she said as they reached the second floor. “You have no idea how lonely I’ve been...”

 G. Emory Partridge heard a door close. “The poor chap will wish he had exercised more initiative when she gets done with him.”

 Partridge walked over to a table and flipped a switch on the console on top. Into the front room came another man dressed in the lightweight metal uniform. Only this one was at least six-and-a-half feet tall.

 “Yes sir?”

 “Mr. Lassiter. Please select four or five of the Guard for a special duty tomorrow. It appears there’s a village within the territory of New Britania that seems a bit resistant to the new order.”

 “Quite unfortunate,” Lassiter said.

 “Precisely. I think you may need to keep that village under surveillance, starting tomorrow. Evaluate and, if necessary, take action. In particular there may be a need to eliminate a bad influence. There’s apparently a Yank woman giving the villagers bad ideas.”

 “I thought Blonston was riding in that direction today.”

 “Yes, he seemed to be taken back by this Yank woman. Hardly what I expect out of the Nottingham Guards.”

 “Should I reprimand him, sir?”

 A scream from upstairs filled the front room.

 “No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Partridge said.

 ***

 The Rio International Airport was every bit as hectic and disorganized as Rio itself, a mass of people moving all different directions at once. For the reluctant traveling companions, the long wait through customs only served to add to the unpleasant mood of the flight down from New York.

 After slogging through the bureaucracy and fetching their bags, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents gathered to make plans.

 “I suggest we get a taxi and go into town,” Solo said.

 “We have to come back to the airport in the morning,” Kuryakin replied. “We have to catch the charter flight to the rain forest. Would it not make more sense to find a hotel near here? It would save time in the morning.”

 “As I recall, I was designated the senior agent.”

 Ah, he is testing me, Kuryakin thought. No doubt this will not be the first time.

 “So you were,” Kuryakin said. :It is just...”

 “It’s settled then,” Solo said, interrupting. “I hear the Rio Internacional Hotel is quite comfortable.”

 “Rio Internacional?”

 “Yes, it’s down near Copacabana Beach.”

 “What purpose will it serve staying all the way down at Copacabana Beach?” Kuryakin said, with a hint of irritation.”

 At that moment, two tall Brazilian women in long dresses walked by, smiling at the two men before continuing on their way.

 “Morale,” Solo said. “Besides, I’ll buy you dinner tonight. We might as well enjoy ourselves one evening. We can’t leave for the rain forest until tomorrow, anyway.”

 Without thinking, Illya Kuryakin rolled his eyes but acquiesced.

***

 Two hours later, after checking in and changing clothes, Solo and Kuryakin met in the hotel’s restaurant. Neither man was very hungry, and each ordered light. The Russian was satisfied with a large salad, while Solo ordered a modest sandwich. Kuryakin grimaced, however, when Solo insisted upon putting ketchup on it.

 “Why are you doing that?” Kuryakin said.

 “What? The ketchup?”

 “Seems wasteful.”

 “Pardon me,” Solo said.

 The discussion was interrupted by the waitress. She was tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” she said.

 “Very,” Solo said, squinting briefly in Kuryakin’s direction before turning his gaze back to the woman.

 “I am very glad.”

 “You speak English very well, Miss--”

 “Del Ocho. Manuela del Ocho.”

 “That’s a very pretty name,” Solo said.

 “And what is yours, if I may ask?”

 “Solo. Napoleon Solo.”

 Manuela smirked. “That cannot be.”

 “Oh, why not?”

 “Why would anyone name their child after such a notorious figure?”

 “Perhaps my parents had large ambitions for me.”

 “I am sorry, I did not mean offense.”

 “None taken. Hardly the first time.”

 Kuryakin was beginning to feel ill, except it wasn’t physical.

 “I wish I had more time,” Manuela said. “It is nearly time for me to end my shift.”

 “Well, perhaps we could go somewhere. I’m nearly done.”

 “Uh, Napoleon,” Kuryakin interrupted. “We do have that business to deal with in the morning --”

 “I think the morning will take care of itself.”

 “Miss, could you pardon us for a moment?”

 Manuela had a puzzled look on her face, but moved away. “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

 Solo frowned. “What is all that about?”

 “We have an assignment,” Kuryakin said quietly but with intensity. “We should perhaps conserve our energies and celebrate the pleasures of the flesh when the mission is completed not before.”

 “I see,” the American said deliberately. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but there’s always a good chance we might not survive until the end of the assignment. Oh, we can pretend. We can even plan for later. I know, I tried it. But what I planned for evaporated. No, there’s not much point in such a course.”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “It’s none of your concern,” Solo said, getting up from the table.

 Kuryakin watched as Solo approached Manuela and both left the restaurant. Obviously, something is bothering Mr. Solo, he thought. Sounds like something personal, rather than professional. Or perhaps it’s a mixture of both. He knew, however, it would do him no good to probe.

 A moment later, another waitress came up to the table. “Senor,” she said. “There is still the matter of the bill.”

 Kuryakin fumed. “It appears I will have to take care of it, then.”

***

 The evening air was moist and warm, thanks to the breezes coming off the ocean.

 Solo offered his hand to Manuela. She paused for a moment before taking it as they continued their walk near the beach.

 “Lovely night,” he said.

 “I suppose it is.”

 Solo thought he caught a glint of doubt in her eyes. “You don’t sound completely convinced.”

 “Oh, it is nothing.”

 “Well, it has been my experience that usually means it’s something.”

 She laughed. “I must admit I hadn’t expected you to so eagerly accept the invitation. The way you left your poor friend back there.”

 “Actually, he’s a business associate. We’re not exactly friends.”

 “Oh? Rivals?”

 “Well, we only found out yesterday from our firm that we’d be working together.”

 “I see. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

 “I’m not sure what you mean,” Solo said.

 “Ah. Now it has been my experience that a person who says that knows exactly what one means.”

 “Well, you’re doing so well, you tell me.”

 “There’s a restlessness about you. You rush about -- almost as if you are trying to forget something. Perhaps someone.”

 Solo’s face turned ashen for only a moment, but it was enough. “What makes you say that?”

 “I have seen it before. Some men, when rejected by a woman, consume alcohol in vast quantities for a time. Sometimes, a long time. But you, you are different somehow. It is, well I’m not sure.”

 “What makes you think it was a woman?”

 “Your reaction a moment ago.”

 “I see.”

 “How shall I describe it? It is as if you are throwing yourself into life -- hoping to forget, or get over an affair gone bad.”

 “No,” Solo said. “Not gone bad. Merely ended prematurely -- from my perspective, at least.”

 “But ended, nevertheless, eh?”

 “So do most waitresses in Rio practice psychology on the side?” Solo said, trying to sound glib.

 “Rio attracts the very rich and the very poor,” she responded, quite seriously. “Even a modest waitress like myself sees the extremes and gets to study them. I suppose it is merely a matter of being observant.”

 Solo stopped and looked up at the nearly full moon, then looked back at Manuela. “Perhaps you missed your calling.”

 She smiled. Solo kissed her, once briefly, then longer the second time.

 “Well, it’s getting late, and I do need to get an early start in the morning,” Solo said. “Can I arrange to drop you home?”

 Manuela arched her eyebrows.

 Solo raised his right hand and extended his forefinger, middle finger and ring finger upward. “Scout’s honor. Besides, you might be right. Maybe I need to ease up on the accelerator a bit.”

 Manuela kissed him again. “All right,” she said. “But don’t feel you have to slam on the brakes entirely.”

***

 A couple of hours later, Solo eased the key into his hotel room door, then glanced at his watch. Still before midnight. At least he could assure the Russian he made it back before then.

 Solo slowly entered, checking the room for any presence that shouldn’t be there. Satisfied, he closed the door and tossed the room key on the bed. He began to unbutton his shirt, then turned to go to the bathroom. Just as he opened the door, there was a clang as the bucket of water fell down, dumping its contents on Solo and landing on his head.

 The agent, sopping wet, tensed as if anticipating an attack. When none came, he relaxed. “I guess Russians don’t like being stuck with a dinner check,” he said to himself.

 In the next room, Illya Kuryakin, lying in his bed, awoke. He sat up in bed momentarily, and looked toward his room door. There, the chair remained leaning up against the lock. Convinced any attempt by Solo to retaliate for the practical joke would awaken him, Kuryakin laid back down and fell asleep instantly.

***

 Rita Verde completed her morning routine a little early and once again hiked toward the village. She took a slight detour and headed toward the small farm of Esteban Oliva. Rita had been working on Esteban for weeks. If she could convince him, it would be a starting point.

 “Ah, senorita!” Esteban yelled as she approached.

 Rita smiled and waved. While Esteban was set in his ways, he had a warm manner and had accepted her almost as soon as she had arrived in the area.

 A few minutes later, Rita took out a small map of Esteban’s farm, which they both studied in the small house. Esteban’s wife, Lisa, watched, but said nothing.

 “Are you really certain this will improve my yield? I mean really certain,” he said in Portuguese.

 “Esteban, as I’ve told you before, by planting crops in the same place, year after year, you are depleting the soil. You said yourself that last year’s crops were the puniest you had ever seen.”

 Esteban frowned. “It is not comfortable to have one’s words turned against one self.”

 “Esteban, I’m not trying to win an argument. I want to help you do better for yourself. Please. This system--”

 “Crop rotation,” he interrupted. “You have told me many times before. You are persistent, I give you that, senorita. Very well. I will attempt it. In fact, I will begin planting tomorrow.”

 “You won’t regret it, Esteban.”

 Esteban tried to keep a serious look but Rita caught a glimpse of a smile. “So you say.”

 Rita smiled. But had she looked about a quarter mile away, her small sense of triumph would have immediately faded. Four all-terrain vehicles were parked on a rutted path. The driver of the lead vehicle looked through a pair of binoculars into the village.

***

 The plane hit an air pocket. Napoleon Solo felt a violent surge of nausea, but it faded quickly. The bump on his head -- from a previous encounter with air turbulence -- was going to remain for a while.

 “Thought this was supposed to be a cargo plane,” the American said to himself.

 “I heard that,” the pilot snapped. “You want to get to the rain forest, don’t count on comfy accommodations.”

 Solo kept quiet and looked at Illya Kuryakin, who only stared out the window of the plane. How did I get stuck with such a killjoy? If it weren’t for his little practical joke, I’d swear the man was totally humorless.

 Kuryakin could almost feel the daggers coming from Solo’s eyes. Why have I been assigned to work with such an immature, potentially reckless operative? Apparently he has trouble curbing his base appetites. God only knows what he will be like in the field.

 “You two fellas are sure are a bundle of joy,” the pilot said.

 Neither man responded.

***

 The sound of the airplane caused Rita Verde to stop in her tracks. So few planes  ever happened by it would cause her to notice. But with the odd appearance of the stranger in the village yesterday, Rita was immediately suspicious. Could this sudden appearance of an aircraft be tied into the oddly dressed man proclaiming the village was under the rule of a new country?

 Rita could see the plane was circling, as if preparing to land. It was equipped to land in water and the river was nearby. Without thinking, Rita’s pace quickened, as she began to head toward the river.

 Then, there was a rumble from behind her. An all-terrain vehicle was veering over a hill. Two more medieval-dressed man were aboard, the one on the passenger side leaning out. Suddenly, the vehicle was on top of her, the one man grabbing her while the other drove.

 She tried to struggle, but she was barely five feet tall while her captor was a foot taller and a wall of muscle besides. He yanked Rita into the vehicle and immediately covered her mouth with his huge hand.

 “Don’t even think of screaming,” he yelled. “Or I’ll break you in two.”

 Rita’s eyes widened, but instinct told her it’d be foolish to resist -- at least this second. Her heart pumped, she could feel the blood racing through her body.

 “She must be going to meet that plane,” the driver said.

 “That’s the way I figure it. Let’s greet her friends in a way the Squire would approve.”

***

 The U.N.C.L.E. plane hit the water hard. The landing was nearly as bumpy as most of the journey from Rio. Both Solo and Kuryakin felt their stomachs bounce, but both agents maintained a stony poker face, each not wanting to show a sign of weakness to the other.

 A couple of minutes passed before the plane came up to a river bank where its passengers could disembark. The pilot kept the engine idling.

 “All ashore, that’s going ashore,” he said.

 “Thanks,” Solo said coldly.

 “Now you boys have a portable radio, right? U.N.C.L.E. communicators won’t do much good out here because there’s no power source to attach them to,” the pilot said, ignoring Solo’s remark.

 “Yes, I have a portable transmitter in my backpack,” Kuryakin answered matter of factly.

 “Yeah, I hear they’re working on a new model that works on batteries,” the pilot said. “Looks like a pack of cigarettes. Unfortunately, the Brazilian station doesn’t get those kind of goodies right away.”

 “We’ll get by,” Solo said.

 “Well I hope for your sakes the transmitter works. Because nobody will be looking for you for at least three or four days unless you radio in.”

 “Yes, I remember the instructions,” the American replied.

 “OK, fellers, see you in a few days.”

 The two men grabbed their packs and got out of the plane. Without saying anything, the pilot then steered the plane back into the river, got up to speed and took off. The agents watched for a minute until the plane disappeared.

 Solo and Kuryakin remained silent as they began to hike up the bank to higher ground. Just before the top, however, the roar of a vehicle caused them to stop. Both men dropped their packs and reached for their U.N.C.L.E. Specials in the belt holsters they wore. But they stopped as a man, dressed like something out of the Crusades, pointed a rifle at them as the vehicle he rode in and screeched to a halt.

Act III

“Trial and Error”

 Solo and Kuryakin couldn’t help looking at each other for a moment, just to see if the other had seen the same thing. The man with the rifle wore some kind of metallic-looking garb, like a foot soldier during the Middle Ages. The outfit looked vaguely like chainmail, but fit the man more snugly. Obviously somebody had improved upon medieval times.

 “Obviously you blokes must be helping our prisoner,” he said.

 The agents saw another man, dressed just like the man with the gun.

 “The Squire will be very interested in talking with you, I imagine. First, gentlemen, very carefully undo your belts and drop your holsters.”

 Solo complied, but in an instant, was diving on the ground. The man with the rifle squeezed off one shot but missed. As he hit the soil, Solo grabbed a chunk of earth and hurled it at his attacker. The gunman squeezed off another couple of shots, trying to find the range until the chunk of dirt struck him square in the face. Simultaneously, Kuryakin ran directly at the vehicle’s driver, who was reaching for a pistol. The Russian attempted a karate blow, but the man’s metallic hood helped to shield the blow. Kuryakin’s right hand screamed in pain but the agent kept his wits and launched a left jab at the driver’s jaw. The man was stunned long enough for Kuryakin to steady himself and launch himself to connect with a kick to the face. Meanwhile, Solo was on top of the gunman, yanking the rifle from him. Solo then yanked the man out of the terrain vehicle. As with Kuryakin, the man’s metallic hood blunted the force of Solo’s karate blow. His opponent then got his hands around Solo’s throat. The two men rolled down the hill, toward the river. As they landed near the water, Solo kicked his attacker away, causing him to stumble backwards into the river.

 Solo gasped for breath for a minute. His opponent wasn’t so lucky. He stumbled around the muck of the river bottom, continuing to move backward. The metallic outfit was cumbersome and its owner began to thrash about. He kept slipping backward, getting ever deeper. Just before his head went under the surface, he screamed. Then, he was gone. The water rippled briefly before the river returned to normal.

 Only then, had Solo recovered and thought to look back. He saw Kuryakin standing near the top of the hill, watching. But then the American saw something stirring from the vehicle.

 “Kuryakin!” he yelled.

 Suddenly, the driver got up from the ground and got back to the vehicle. Kuryakin ran a couple of steps back to his holster on the ground and extracted the U.N.C.L.E. Special. He had the weapon ready to fire. But the driver wasn’t alone. He held a pistol to the head of a gagged and bound woman.

 “All right, chappies. I don’t know what you’re up to. But surrender or else the lady here gets her brains blown out.”

 “I do not think so,” Kuryakin said, his pistol aimed.

 “I wouldn’t try it, chum. All it takes is one pull of the trigger.”

 “I am quite familiar with how a pistol operates,” Kuryakin responded.

 The driver’s face became flustered, his eyes briefly bulged. His finger tightened on the trigger. Kuryakin fired, his shot striking between the driver’s eyes. The man fell limp immediately, the gun falling out of his hand as his corpse collapsed.

 Rita Verde’s eyes now bulged as she tried to scream despite the gag. Solo stumbled up the hill, getting to her first.

 She was still trying to scream as Solo approached and held her. He could feel her trembling.

 “Miss, stop it!” Solo said. “Calm down! It’s over. You’re safe.”

 Rita stopped trying to scream, but the trembling was even more intense.

 Kuryakin picked up the holsters of both agents and walked calmly toward the vehicle. Solo glanced over and admitted to himself the Russian could keep himself under control -- and was a hell of a shot, besides. Solo’s own heart raced, but he didn’t want to betray his own nervousness to the woman.

 “Miss, I’m going to take the gag off. Please be calm. OK?”

 Rita nodded her head yes. Solo took the gag out, but Rita screamed anyway before Solo could cover her mouth.

 “We’re from the authorities, miss. Again, try to be calm.”

 He removed his hand from her mouth and this time Rita didn’t yell. For a minute, however, she began to hyper-ventilate before she began to breathe normally.

 “I-I-I could have been--”

 “But you weren’t. As I said, you’re safe now. We’re not the enemy.”

 Rita began to breath deeply, finally relaxing. Solo let go.

 “Who are those men? Who are you?”

 Solo glanced at Kuryakin, but the American could not read the Russian’s stony expression.”

 “We’re from U.N.C.L.E.,” Solo said. “We’ve been sent to investigate reports that something odd is going on here. My name is Napoleon Solo. He is Illya Kuryakin. And you are?”

 Rita looked at both men, still wary. Solo then began to untie her bonds and she seemed to relax.

 “Uh, my name is Rita Verde, I’m with the International Volunteer Corps. I’m stationed here. I’m supposed to be helping villagers around this area.”

 “I’ve heard of it,” Kuryakin said. “Volunteers go to various under developed countries, help them with agriculture, medicine and various tasks.”

 “That’s right,” Rita said.

 “What were these men doing here?” Solo asked.

 “Don’t you know?”

 “All we know is there have been scattered reports of odd goings on,” the agent replied.

 “You said you’re from U.N.C.L.E. What’s that, exactly?”

 Solo glanced and saw Kuryakin frowning. Apparently the Russian thought Solo had said too much already.

 “It’s a sort of international law enforcement agency,” the American said. “So what do you know about these refugees from Camelot?”

 “I don’t know much at all,” Rita said. “One of these guys showed up on a horse yesterday at a village near here. He said something about a new country had been formed and we were now supposed to be following the Squire.”

 “Squire?” Kuryakin said. “The man with the rifle mentioned something about a Squire.”

 “That’s all?” Solo said.

 “I told the guy he was crazy and he rode off. Made me nervous, but nothing more happened until a short while ago. I had been helping a farmer near here when these two grabbed me. I saw a plane -- must have been the one that brought you two -- and went to see what was going on. Then they grabbed me, saying something about me having something to do with the plane. They tied me up and stuffed me in back until they tried to get you two.”

 “Well, we do not have to worry about the other man,” Kuryakin said. “But I’d best start digging a grave for this man.”

  Kuryakin took a few steps to the backpacks that lay on the ground. He opened his own and took out a small shovel and got to work.

 “Mister--” Rita said, anxiety still in her voice.

 “Solo. But call me Napoleon.”

 Rita let out a nervous laugh. “I thought that’s what you said. Are you serious?”

 Solo held back the temptation to make a smart remark. “I’m serious.”

 “I’m sorry,” Rita said, showing a hint of a smile.

 “Forget it,” Solo said. “Let me help Illya for a bit. You just stay here and collect your thoughts. We can still use your help.”

 ***

 Nearly an hour later, the grim task was completed. Rita had watched in silence as the two agents dug a hole and placed the corpse in it. The two men were silent for a moment before they approached Rita, who sat on the ground, up against the all-terrain vehicle.

 “I supposed I should thank you, especially you, uh, what is your name again?”

 “Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin. It was nothing, really. It is what we are trained for.” “Listen, it will be dark before long,” Rita said. “Where are you staying?”

 “Well, we were planning on roughing it,” Solo said.

 “I live out of, well, a shack,” Rita said. “But it’s not that far a walk from here. If you’re roughing it, you could sleep nearby, there is some brush for cover and such.”

 Solo thought about it for a moment. He glanced again at Kuryakin, whose eyes betrayed a deep disapproval at the idea. Kuryakin was probably right, Solo thought, but he felt too tired to make an extensive search for shelter. I am supposed to be the senior agent on this assignment....

 “All right,” Solo said. “Let’s hide this vehicle in the brush first. Then it’s off to your place.”

 Kuryakin gave Solo a dirty look, but the American ignored it.

***

 Basil Kensington got up and began to pace yet again. Then, he saw one of his men approach.

 “Sir, there are no signs whatsoever of Rathbone and Baker. It is more than two hours since they were supposed to return from their patrol.”

 “I can tell time,” Kensington said, leaning over and picking up a walkie talkie from the all-terrain vehicle. “Place? Kensington here. Please put me in contact with the Squire. Out.”

 A few seconds passed. “Yes, what is it, Kensington?” G. Emory Partridge’s voice said.

 “I can only conclude we’ve lost our scouting party. They are more than two hours overdue. If this woman were no threat, Rathbone and Baker would have been back by now.”

 More silence. “I suppose you’re right. Recommendations?”

 “It’s nearly dark, sir and the trails are a bit ragged. I’d suggest we camp here and move in with force first thing in the morning.”

 “Splendid. But don’t plan on returning unless you have the woman in custody -- and any friends she may have, as well. If anyone in that village tries to oppose you, liquidate them, as well. Squire out.”

 As the communication ended, Partridge handed the microphone back to his communications officer, then the Squire began to rub his chin.

 “Instructions, sir?”

 “Nothing for now,” Partridge said, as he left the room.

 The Squire frowned as he worked his way back to his living quarters. He was lost in thought until he saw the physician putting away the contents of his medical bag.

 “Ah, doctor. How did it go?”

 “The man died,” the doctor said, with a nervous tic in his face. “Mrs. Partridge has some unique ideas for recreation. I imagine the Kinsey Institute would find her a fascinating case study.”

 “Died, eh?” Partridge said. “That is unfortunate, but the man was due some punishment. Had he acted in a more forceful manner yesterday, we might have been spared an unfortunate incident today.”

 “Senor Partridge, none of this is my affair. But Mrs. Partridge, she is -- how do you say it? She is--”

 “I’m quite aware of Edith’s proclivities, doctor. But she is most invaluable to what I am trying to accomplish.”

 “Whatever. I have done all I can do. I shall be in my quarters if you require further assistance.”

 “Thank you, doctor.”

 As the physician left through the front door, Partridge went up the stairs and found Edith’s bedroom. He knocked twice.

 “Who is it?” Edith said.

 “It is I, dear,” Partridge said.

 “Oh, do come in, Emory.”

 As Partridge entered, his wife was putting on a robe over her negligee. “I’m afraid I got a little over-enthusiastic with that young man, Emory. Can you forgive me?”

 “Of course, m’dear,” Partridge responded. “After all, you have your needs.”

 “Oh you are such a dear,” she said, approaching him, stroking his head with her hand.

 “Dear, there is something you can do for me,” Partridge said.

 “What is that, Emory?”

 “I was planning on leaving in the morning to go to Sao Paulo to pick up that latest weapons shipment myself. But something has arisen that calls for my presence here. Could you be a dear and go in my place?”

 “Well, I don’t know, dear...”

 “Edith, you know you were only supposed to have a little fun with that fellow I sent up with you. Now, I have to recruit a replacement for the Nottingham Guards. That’s quite expensive. Mercenaries willing to report for duty this deep in the rain forest are hard to come by, you know.”

 “Oh, I suppose you’re right, dear.”

 “Good. Can you leave first thing in the morning?”

 “Of course, dear.”

 “Excellent. Besides, if anything, your knowledge of weapons is even better than mine. You can ensure we’re getting the most value for our money.” With that, Partridge turned and left his wife alone in the bedroom.

***

 “You weren’t kidding,” Solo said. “It really isn’t much more than a shack.”

 Rita Verde turned and smiled. “We’re not exactly a big budget operation.”

 The group came upon Rita’s dwelling. Kuryakin had said almost nothing during the long hike.

 “I don’t have much, but perhaps I can fix you something to eat,” she said.

 “Actually, we brought our own rations,” the Russian said, finally breaking his silence. “Although I suppose if you had a table that would be an unexpected bonus.”

 “That I can provide,” Rita said at the front door. “You’re lucky. It’s rains less this time of year than most. Don’t know what else you’ve got, but if you have sleeping bags, out back is a good place to put them. Also, there’s a little brook a ways beyond that. You could use that for shaving.”

 “We’ll manage,” Solo said.

 An hour later, the agents had completed their makeshift meal at the small table. They watched as Rita prepared coffee at a small, wood-burning stove.

 “Either of you want some? It’s nearly done.”

 “If you do not mind, I will take a walk,” Kuryakin said. “I’ll also start to set up our camp. But thank you for your kindness.”

 “Least I could do,” Rita said.

 “Good night,” Illya replied.

 After he left, Rita looked at Solo. “Hope you want some. I made a little extra.”

 “A cup of coffee would be great,” Solo said.

 She poured the coffee into two plain mugs, put one in front of Solo and sat down with her own mug. “Your friend isn’t exactly the most outgoing person I’ve ever met.”

 “He’s not exactly a friend. In fact, we had never met before we were assigned to come down here.”

 “Let me see. Illya Kuryakin. Sounds Eastern European, or something.”

 “Russian, actually. He’s from the Soviet Union.”

 “You’re working with a Russian?”

 “U.N.C.L.E. is supposed to be an international organization,” Solo said. “I’ve worked with people from a number of countries, though I’ll admit this pairing is a bit unusual.”

 “Seems like a nice guy under that gruff exterior of his.”

 “I’m sure he is, but as I said we’re not exactly chums.”

 “Well, let’s change the subject....hmmm....Napoleon. For someone with such a continental name, you sound like you’re from the States.”

 “I am,” he said. “Forgive me, but I’m curious. Are you from the States yourself? You sound like an American, but you look like you might have been born around here.”

 “I was, born in Sao Paulo, actually,” Rita said. “I was adopted when I was a couple of months old and grew up in the States. My mom and dad, well I guess my adoptive mom and dad, raised me as if I were one of their own.”

 “What made you want to join the International Volunteer Corps?”

 “Burst of idealism, I guess,” she said. “Not something to make a career of, but that can always come later. It’s pretty important work. Guess yours is, too.”

 “Mine?” Solo said. “I suppose so.” He fell silent for a moment.

 “Uh-oh,” Rita said.

 “What’s wrong?”

 “That brooding look. It’s a guy thing, I know. Got to hold it in, repress emotion all that.”

 Solo frowned.

 Rita smiled. “Sorry, I took some psych classes in college -- basic psychology. Sorry if I hit on something sensitive.”

 The agent smiled briefly. “Well, you’re right that U.N.C.L.E. is important work. But it can be a little rough on the personal life, sometimes.”

 “Oh? Girlfriend not like it?”

 “Actually, the relationship had kind of gotten a little past that stage. But she didn’t like what I did for a living, and well...”

 Rita arched her eyebrows. “Let me guess, you two broke up over it.”

 “It was more her idea, actually.”

 “Oh, I can relate.”

 “You can?” Solo asked.

 “I was engaged when I came down here. Big tall, dark guy named Ken. At first he said he was proud of what I was doing. Even came down for a couple of visits.”

 “You’re talking in the past tense,” Solo said.

 “Yeah, I guess I am. Ken wanted to get on with his business career. I said I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’ve got another two years. So, he dropped me.”

 “Sorry.”

 “Oh, it’s all right. The warning signs were probably there, I just didn’t heed them. I suppose it’s for the best.”

 Rita looked up and her dark brown eyes met his. Solo liked the plain talk, her direct manner. Rita was also striking in appearance. Here, with little makeup, wearing a denim shirt and jeans, she seemed prettier than other women who spent long periods in the mirror vamping themselves.

 But he also thought of the incident down by the river. Something deadly was happening here. This was not the right place or time. Maybe working with Kuryakin is rubbing off on me, Solo thought. Though I’ll be damned if I admit it to him.

 “I’d better help my colleague with the camp. Thanks again for the hospitality, Rita.”

 “Night, Napoleon.”

 He got up and exited the shack. Rita stared at the door for a moment, drummed her fingers on the table. After a minute, she sighed, then began to get ready for bed.

***

 The next morning, it was Solo who arose first, checking out the brook nearby the camp site. The stream was steady and he used it for a quick shave. He walked back to the camp but saw Kuryakin had arisen in the interim. The agent glanced down and saw Kuryakin had opened up his backpack, so Solo assumed he must be shaving somewhere, as well.

 At that moment, he spotted Rita Verde, coming out of the shack and looking skyward. He walked in her direction.

 “Looks like the rain might hold off today,” she said. “Normally, we get a nice drenching little shower just before breakfast.”

 “I guess...”

 Just then, Pablo Escobar came running up. “Senorita, there’s danger...”

 The shot ripped through his chest.

 “Pablo!” Rita yelled.

 Simultaneously, there was the roar of internal combustion engines. Three all-terrain vehicles, each with two occupants dressed in the metallic, medieval-styled outfits, skidded to a halt immediately in front of them.

 “Give yourselves up! You are enemies of the state!” said the driver of the lead vehicle.

 “Rita, run!” Solo said.

 The men moved quickly, and three of them were on top of Solo before he could get the U.N.C.L.E. Special out of the belt holster. Rita dodged a lunging man, and tried to hit another. But her two attackers quickly pinned her down. One took out a cloth from a pouch and held it over her mouth. Rita’s eyes bulged for a second, before the chloroform fumes overcame her. Meanwhile, Solo struggled against his three attackers, but two held him in place long enough for the third man to knock him out with a karate blow.

 The two who had subdued Rita quickly fanned out, drawing guns from their belts as they did so. They saw a movement within a bush. “Come out of there, or you will be chopped to pieces!” one of them yelled.

 Slowly, a dark skinned man with a mustache emerged from the brush, his hands in the air.

 “He is only a villager,” the group’s leader said. “Let him go.”

 “Let him go?” one of his men replied.

 “He will get the word out that it is unwise to oppose the Squire. Let’s move out.”

 The men put Solo and Rita in the backs of separate vehicles, then started up the vehicles and moved out. Illya Kuryakin, wearing makeup and the false mustache, stayed silent until they disappeared and then inspected the boy’s body. Kuryakin muttered an obscenity in Russian, then went back to retrieve his backpack.

***

Act III

 The bumps were constant, almost as bad as air turbulence between Rio and the drop off at the river. For Napoleon Solo, the bumps only aggravated the pain that enveloped his head. The up and down motion was so severe, they had to be going slow -- speeds above 10 miles an hour would be suicidal over terrain like this. Without opening his eyes, he could also feel the ropes that bound his hands. Then, things got hazy again...

 Suddenly, or at least it seemed sudden, the ground leveled off for a few minutes. There was brief stop, then and only then did Solo open his eyes.

 He looked up, his eyes barely open, when he saw the vehicle was going through a gate. Solo remembered to keep still, not wanting to alert his captors. Then he felt a poke. “All right, get up, you. Time to see the Squire.”

 Solo frowned as he struggled to arise. The man in his passenger seat had gotten out, leaned over and yanked the agent from the rear compartment, throwing Solo onto the ground.

 The American sat up and stared for a moment. A castle? In the middle of the Brazilian rain forest? He stood up slowly and began to scan the compound of the castle grounds. Off to the side, Brazilians were constructing another stone structure, about the size of a cottage.

 The other men were more gentle with Rita, at least not tossing her to the ground. But Solo could see the dark eyes darting back and forth. Her breathing was rapid, as if starting to hyperventilate.

 “Go own, you two,” the leader of the group barked. “The Squire does not wish to be kept waiting.”

 Solo wanted to go to Rita to try and comfort her, but one of the medieval looking men nudged him away. Then, Solo turned his attention to the main structure in front of him. What kind of effort would it have taken to build this thing?

 They went through the main door and were in a large room, the kind that would be used for fancy dress balls or large parties. The leader of the group grabbed Solo and Rita and forced them to kneel on the floor. At that moment, a tall bearded man, dressed impeccably in a suit, emerged at the top of a stairwell and came down.

 “So these are the ones who are trying to block the new order, eh?” the man said.

 “Yes, sir,” the group leader said. “She matches the description and was with this man when we captured them.”

 The tall man motioned for Solo and Rita to rise.

 “You are the Squire?” Solo said coolly.

 The group leader prepared to whack Solo with a backhanded blow, but the bearded man motioned him to stop.

 “Yes, I am Squire G. Emory Partridge. As in the pear tree.”

 “Partridge?” Solo said. The name sounded vaguely familiar, one of a dozen dossiers. Some sort of independent criminal, but the pain in Solo’s head made it difficult to remember all the particulars.

 “Did you find the missing two men?”

 “No,” the leader said. “We can only presume they are dead.”

 “Very impressive,” Partridge said. “And just who are these two that they snuff out two of my Nottingham Guards?

 Nottingham Guards? Solo thought to himself.

 “Their identification papers, Squire,” the leader said, handing him some papers. “Rita Verde, International Volunteer Corps, and Napoleon Solo of the -- oh, that’s interesting -- United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Obviously the good Miss Verde here has a cover identity for U.N.C.L.E.”

 “You crazy, old man, what are you--”

 “Please, Miss Verde. We have very little time for games. You know, Mr. Solo, Miss Verde, I have to respect you. In fact, I am inviting you to dinner. But, I must warn you, there will not be idle chit chat. What you tell me may very well be a matter of life and death.”

 Partridge motioned, and two of the Nottingham Guards grabbed the prisoners. “Take them to their cell until dinner,” Partridge said.

***

 For Illya Kuryakin, the hike took much of the day. But tracking the vehicles had been an easy task. The heavy vehicles tore up the soil when they ventured even a minute distance from the narrow paths. Even after the vehicles had come into a clearing, the tire marks weren’t difficult to see. He kept going, step after step, relentless in his task. The memory of the dead boy haunted Kuryakin as he walked. He had felt he should bury him, but the job dictated not even the slightest delay. He only hoped the boy would be found and his body taken care of properly.

 Then, he saw the castle surrounded by the large wooden fence. Around the fence were a variety of huts, like the serfs who lived outside of medieval castles. The Russian shook his head and stared for a moment. He then resumed his methodical hike.

***

 The sentry kept his eyes forward. Although Freddy Montaigne was used to working shady jobs, nothing had quite compared to this one. At least he didn’t have to wear the metallic material the so-called Nottingham Guards wore. Instead, he wore a plain jumpsuit. But the military pretensions of his employer were baffling and annoying. Still, the money was good, and pulling sentry duty was better than rotting away in prison for a killing or two, not to mention a few robberies. The law was closing in quickly when he answered the odd-looking personal advertisement a few months back in London.

 Montaigne’s senses were suddenly alert when he heard shuffling footsteps from his right. He raised his rifle, and was ready to fire. But he relaxed when he saw it was merely one of the bloody villagers. It had gotten dark and it was hard to see, but Montaigne could make out the grimy clothes. This one also had a grubby mustache and battered hat.

 “Ah senor, my friend, can you spare anything? I am quite hungry,” the villager said.

 Montaigne frowned. “Get away, ya bleedin’ bugger.”

 “Oh, is that the way a representative of our new land should talk?”

 “Listen, friend, I’m just followin’ me orders. I suggest you move on.”

 The villager shrugged his shoulders, smiled, then struck a karate chop. Montaigne saw only a blur before blackness came

 Illya Kuryakin looked around and saw no one. He quickly dragged the sentry about fifty feet to some brush, where the agent had stashed his backpack. He began removing the man’s uniform, then tied him up and stuffed a gag in his mouth.

   Fifteen minutes later, it was Kuryakin who resumed the man’s watch, pulling the sentry’s cap as low as he could. The man has to be relieved sometime, he thought.

 The relief came sooner than later, after another 38 minutes passed. The new sentry said nothing, and Kuryakin merely nodded, then went inside the compound.

 It was hard not to gape. The castle in the center of the grounds was lit up. Why someone would go to this trouble was hard to imagine, so Kuryakin didn’t waste the mental energy. Instead, he tried to walk as if he belonged, hoping to find what he needed. The Russian stayed close to the wall, until he was almost behind the castle. There, he saw a fortified stone building, with a sign in both English and Portuguese: “Warning: Explosives.”

 ***

 The dining table was one of the longest Solo had ever seen. He sat on one end, with Rita on his left side, while Squire Partridge sat at the other end.

 Partridge sipped a glass of wine while studying the identification papers his Nottingham Guards had taken from his guests. Finally, he spoke, “I must say, Mr. Solo, I’m a bit surprised your organization has taken such an interest so early. I really wasn’t ready to go public for a bit yet.”

 Solo decided to bluff. “There’s really very little that escapes the notice of U.N.C.L.E., Squire.”

 “Really?”

 “Of course.”

 “So you planted Miss Verde here in the guise of the International Volunteer Corps, well-known, do-gooder group, to keep an eye on me.”

 “Not exactly, Squire. Miss Verde is not one of our operatives. A mistake on your part.”

 “Perhaps,” Partridge said, taking another sip of his wine. “Or perhaps U.N.C.L.E. really knew very little, sending you here merely to -- oh how do you Americans put it? -- case the joint?”

 “Squire, really, you should know better.”

 Partridge laughed and got up from the table, walking toward Solo’s end. “Actually, I do know better, Mr. Solo. You’re a rather handsome chap, but a bit young. Mid-20s, perhaps?”

 “I’m mature for my age.”

 “I’m sure you are,” Partridge continued. “But I can’t help but imagine if the U-N-C-L-E really knew what was occurring, it might have sent somewhat more senior operatives. At the very least assigned more agents to this affair.”

 “Believe what you like.”

 “I usually do,” Partridge said. “Actually, you should be honored, Mr. Solo, Miss Verde. You’re both among the first people from outside to learn of the existence of New Britania. You see, I’ve always believed medieval times got a bit of a bad reputation. But unlike medieval principalities,  my new country will also turn out to be fabulously rich.”

***

 Kuryakin worked the lock as patiently as he could. The Russian blocked out everything except the task at hand. Finally, the lock yielded and he opened the door to the building.

 Quickly, Kuryakin took a mental inventory. Rifles, machine guns, ammunition, plastic explosive, even a half-dozen small rockets. He moved to where some bombs sat on the floor. Then, he took a small object from his pocket and studied it quickly. He set the timer on the detonation device, then hid it behind the bombs. Ninety minutes to find Solo and the woman and get out of here.

 The Russian peered out, saw no one nearby. He then exited and relocked the door. Where to look? The castle is the main structure but there are other smaller buildings. He decided to try for the castle.

 He headed toward the main entrance, still not seeing anyone. He circled the structure and ten minutes later, found a side entrance. Before he could try to gain entry, a spotlight was on him.

 Just then, he heard an odd noise. Three of the medieval dressed guards were coming up on him.

 “A patrol found Montaigne, chappie. I don’t recognize you. Care to tell us what you’re doing?”

 Kuryakin stayed silent. So the three men moved in and began to pummel the agent.

***

 “What riches are you talking about?” Rita said, interrupting Partridge. This entire country is poor, and this region is especially so.”

 “Not poor,” the Squire replied. “There is vast wealth here -- for those who know how to look.”

 “And you do?” Solo said.

 “Mr. Solo, the Brazilian rain forest is home to many rare species of plant life. I have a number of contacts, and they indicate there are a number of potential pharmaceuticals that can be based on some of those plants. All it takes is patience for science to take it course. But I mean to control the source of those rare plants. In the meantime, I will live quite well, just as the Squires of old did in my homeland.”

 “You can’t be serious,” Rita said. “These ridiculous uniforms....”

 “Don’t let them fool you, m’dear. The men who wear them are adept mercenaries, many of whom are in trouble with the law themselves. They have no recourse but to follow me. And they will help keep the populace in control.”

 Solo was speechless. Clearly, Partridge was serious. Regardless of whether he could accomplish his goals, he had the means to take a great many people with him.  The image flashed in his mind of the teenage boy who had come running, trying to warn Rita.

 Just then, one of the Nottingham Guards came into the dining room and whispered something to Partridge. The Squire nodded approvingly, then snapped his fingers and more men came in and surrounded Solo.

 “It appears I may have erred. It seems one of Mr. Solo’s friends has been captured. I’ll have to analyze this development. Take Mr. Solo and the lady to the cell with this other fellow.”

 A few minutes later, two of the Nottingham Guards shoved Solo and Rita into a cell, while a third kept them covered with a machine gun. The Guards left quickly and the thick metal door was slammed shut.

 Rita went to Kuryakin, whose fake mustache barely hung to his lip. He had bruises about the face. Solo hung back, checking the room.

 “What are you doing, can’t you see he’s hurt?” Rita said testily.

 Solo ignored her, continuing to examine the dank cell. There were two bunks on the side of the wall, and one open toilet. Evidently the Squire had built modern plumbing into his abode.

 The agent finally spoke. “I’m trying as best as I can to look for microphones. It appears there are none, but that’s hardly a guarantee.”

 “Miss Verde, it is all right, Mr. Solo is doing the right thing,” Kuryakin said. “We may have a bigger concern at the moment.”

 “What’s that?” Solo said.

 “I planted a small bomb inside one of their storage areas. They have quite a variety of goods there.”

 Solo leaned up against the far cell wall and began to look outside a barred window.

 “You, uh, think when the storage area explodes it’ll cause quite a bit of damage,” the American said.

 “It should tear apart at least half this castle.”

 “Do you have any idea where this storage area is relative to this part of the castle?”

 “I am afraid not,” Kuryakin replied. “These fellows in the metallic clothing were quite expert in beating up people. I was in a bit of a daze when they brought me here. Why?”

 Solo pointed out the window. “Because I see a stone building across the way with the words explosives on it. If that’s the building you planted the bomb in, then I’d say we’ll be the first ones to go.”

***

Act IV

“A Partnership Is Forged”

 Kuryakin struggled to get up, his aching body protesting as he did so. He looked out the window and grimaced for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that is it.”

 “Wonderful,” Solo said sarcastically.

 “Well, how did I know you would turn out to be such a-a-a....blockhead? You get yourself captured then critique me when I try to get the assignment completed.”

 “Oh? Gee, you’ve been such the model of teamwork and civility, how could I be in such error?”

 “Stop it!” Rita yelled. “Stop it both of you! You’re acting like children! They killed poor Pablo, they’re probably going to kill other people. We’ve got to get out of here, but we’ll probably get blown up while you two argue.”

 The agents glanced at each other for a moment. “I guess she’s right,” Solo said.

 “Well, what do we do about it?” Kuryakin said.

 “Think of a way out of this. When did you set the detonator?”

 “The beatings made it a bit difficult to keep track of time. Perhaps an hour. If so, we have another 30 before it goes off.”

 “We need some sort of diversion.”

 “Diversion?”

 “To make the guards so curious they can’t help but pop in here,” Solo said. “And we better do it fast.”

 Kuryakin looked away for a moment in thought. Then he glanced upward and saw a beam that ran across the cell. “Do you have a belt?” the Russian asked.

 “Uh, yes, but...”

 “Just give it to me. And do not be alarmed by what I am about to attempt...”

***

 Byron Feldman began to relax. He had been standing outside the heavy cell door for nearly 10 minutes. It had been quiet inside the cell. The prisoners must have settled down.

 Then, Feldman heard a commotion. “Illya! Don’t do it!” It was the woman’s voice, yelling.

 “Oh, God, no.” The American had spoken.

 “Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.” The woman began to choke, as if vomiting.

 Feldman took the safety off his rifle and checked the weapon. “What’s going on in there?” he yelled inside. No response came, except for the sound of more choking.

 The sentry took his key out with his right hand, while keeping the rifle ready to fire with his left. He shoved the key in the lock. “Stay back!” Feldman yelled, then opened the door.

 Feldman moved in but couldn’t help stare at the blonde man, his neck wrapped in a belt that had been suspended over a beam in the ceiling.

 Only a few seconds passed but more than enough for Solo to strike a karate blow on the man’s left arm. Feldman moved quickly, however, wrapping his hands around Solo’s neck. The agent tried to break the grip but the man’s hands were strong. Solo then brought his arms below the guard’s hands. Solo swept his arms upward, the force of the blow causing Feldman to let go. Solo jabbed him in the solar plexus, keeping his hand rigid. The guard doubled over, then Rita pounded him on the head as hard as she could.

 As  Feldman collapsed to the floor, Illya Kuryakin suddenly became animated. He grabbed for the beam, then swung his legs up, wrapping them around the beam. The Russian quickly undid the belt, and dropped gently to the floor.

 “How’d the hell you do that, anyhow?” Solo said, grabbing the rifle. “That’s not standard U.N.C.L.E. training.”

 “Ask me some other time. Let’s concentrate on getting out of here.”

 “Just how are we going to do that?” Rita said.

 “The clock is ticking. Let’s just look for the nearest exit and move,” Solo said.

 ***

 They spent the next ten minutes seeking an exit. Solo led the way, backtracking as best he could remember from when he and Rita had been brought. They went down a long, sweeping corridor.

 “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Kuryakin said.

 “I hope so,” Solo said.

 Kuryakin arched his eyebrows. A bit of honesty. He decided not to respond.

 Suddenly, they were in the front room. Partridge was there, talking to one of the Nottingham Guards. The man in the medieval dress reached for a pistol in a holster on his belt. Solo raised the rifle, firing before the man could aim his weapon. Partridge was already scrambling up the stairs, but two more Nottingham Guards were coming down. Solo kept firing. He hit one, but the other crouched down. Solo’s gunfire kept the one man pinned down, and the agent motioned for Kuryakin and Rita to run for the front. They complied, but Kuryakin reached down and took the pistol from the dead man. Solo then ran for the front and barely got out before the Nottingham Guard unleashed his own volley of shots.

 Kuryakin motioned for the group to follow his lead. There was another small stone building off to the left. The group took off in that direction and circled to the side away from the castle. Rita crouched down while Solo stood and checked his weapon. “Not very good,” he said. “Maybe a dozen shots left. How about you, Illya?”

 The Russian checked the semi-automatic pistol’s clip. “Seems to have a full load, but that’s not more than six or seven shots.”

 Solo peered around the corner, and could see the front of the castle. A half dozen Nottingham Guards came out of the castle, while an equal number were running from other buildings in the compound. Partridge emerged from the castle and began to organize them.

 The agent could make out what the Squire was saying. “They went over there, the equipment building,” Partridge said. “Circle around. Execute them.”

 Solo withdrew. “We’re about to become very busy.”

 “Try to hold them off for a few minutes,” Kuryakin said. “We don’t need much time.”

 “All right. I’ll take the left. You take the right. Rita, stay down.”

 The Nottingham Guards began to fan out. Two were beginning to outflank them already. Solo aimed and fired. He missed with the first shot, but got one of them with the second blast. The other Guard began to crouch down, but Solo squeezed off one more shot. Another miss, but a fourth shot nailed him.

 Suddenly, they could feel the building quiver as dozens of shots hit all at once. Rita stayed on the ground, holding her hands over her ears. But she remained calm.

 “Illya, how long before that bomb goes off?” Rita asked.

 “I wish I knew for sure,” the Russian responded. When the shots ceased, Kuryakin peered around the corner. Two of the Nottingham Guards were making for a shack of some sort. Kuryakin squeezed off two shots, but only hit one, dropping him to the ground. His partner returned fire and made it safely behind the shed.

 “What’s your ammo situation?” Solo yelled.

 “Not the best. Four or five at the most.”

 Solo fired three times, but the Nottingham Guards had all found cover now.

 “Down to six.”

 Suddenly, two of the Nottingham Guards were again trying to outflank them by seeking cover behind one of the all-terrain vehicles.. Solo got off three shots, but only wounded one in the leg. Both found cover. Now the Guards were nearly in position. One of them got cocky, however, and peered around the vehicle. Solo fired again, hitting him between the eyes.

 Meanwhile, the two Guards behind the shack got off a round of shots and did not let up. Kuryakin fired three times when the gun suddenly clicked empty.

 “Dammit, the gun wasn’t fully loaded after all.”

 Solo looked at Rita who was glancing up at him. Her eyes betrayed her anxiety. For once, words didn’t come easy to Solo. “Rita, I--”

 Then the surviving Guard behind the all terrain vehicle opened fire. Solo got off his remaining shots, but his target hadn’t provided enough of an opening.

 He looked at Rita once more. She grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she said, looking at Solo, then back at Kuryakin.

 “How much time, Illya?” Solo said.

 “I was rather hoping it would have gone off by now.”

 Then, they heard Partridge. “Get ready to charge men!”

 Solo held her hand tighter. The shots got louder and they could hear the steps of the surviving Nottingham Guards.

 Before anyone could make another move, the ground shook from the force of the first explosion. Then two, three -- but the noise enveloped everything, it was hard to determine the exact number -- more explosions roared as the munitions were set off. Pieces of block and metal flew through the air like shrapnel. Solo grabbed Rita, throwing them both on the ground. Kuryakin dived down on his own. They could feel the enormous heat of the blast, despite the protection of the building they hid behind.

 The roar continued, for a full minute, maybe two. Then, and only then, did it begin to fade. Solo let go of Rita gently, then slowly began to rise. He grabbed the rifle and held it butt first, ready to use it like a club if necessary.

 Solo slowly moved away from the equipment building. The Nottingham Guards -- the ones who were alive -- cried in pain. He came across one and picked up his rifle. But he only screamed, making no move to oppose Solo.

 Suddenly, Solo heard something stirring. It was Partridge, miraculously alive, but his clothes burned and his face cut up. He struggled to stand up, but stand up he did.

 Solo dropped the empty rifle and had the other ready to fire. “Squire. I would say New Britania is just a memory. I suggest you surrender.”

 “Obviously, I have suffered the sin of over-confidence,” Partridge said.

 “You will have plenty of time to contemplate your sins,” the agent responded.

 “Perhaps, but not in any prison you would send me to.”

 The wounded man bolted, running awkwardly toward the front gate. The force of the blast had jarred the gate loose and Partridge ran out.

 Solo ran to follow, but in the darkness, all he could see was Partridge running into the rain forest.

 Kuryakin came up from behind. “Why did you not fire?”

 “He has nowhere to go,” Solo said. “Either he gives himself up or he’ll die. He’s in no condition to get very far. Besides, there has been enough death this evening.”

 They walked back. Rita tended to one of the wounded Nottingham Guards as best as she could, but the man was dying.

 The two agents looked at each other. “Hope you kept the radio secure,” Solo said.

 “Luckily for you, I am well organized.” With that, Kuryakin took the rifle and went outside the gate. Ten minutes later, he returned and set up the device. It took only a minute to get a response on the designated signal.

***

 It rained hard the next day, as if nature felt it had to do extra to cleanse the scarred landscape. People from surrounding villages came to help, rounding up the surviving Nottingham Guards. A solitary figure kept watch on the rain forest, his rifle ready to fire.

 Illya Kuryakin’s eyes remained on the forest as Napoleon Solo approached. “Illya, our reinforcements radioed in. They’ll be here in about an hour.”

 “Good,” the Russian responded.

 “No sign of Partridge?”

 “None. But it would not hurt to maintain a vigil until our help arrives.”

 “You’re sure? I could relieve you.”

 “No thank you, Napoleon.”

 Napoleon? Solo thought. I guess when you look death in the face with someone, you should be on a first name basis.

 “All right. But feel free to ask for relief, Illya.”

***

 Two planes arrived, each containing four U.N.C.L.E. agents. The rain tapered off and the group found Solo and Kuryakin without trouble. After a quick briefing, Solo went off in the direction of a particular shack. Upon finding it, he knocked on the door.

 Rita Verde smiled as she opened the door.

 “Our relief has arrived. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”

 “I’m fine. Come in.”

 “I am sorry about that boy who got killed. I should have reacted sooner.”

 “You know, Pablo had a crush on me. Seventeen years old. Pretty silly of him.”

 “I don’t think so.”

 Rita hugged him and he held her tight. They stayed that way for several long minutes before Solo began to look at her. She finally gazed up at him, then placed her hands along his face and leaned up to kiss him.

***

 The small boat slowly went from the tributary into the Amazon River itself.

 “You’re quite lucky I forgot my shawl and had to come back, Emory,” Edith Partridge said. “Also, I haven’t lost my touch when it comes to applying first aid.”

 G. Emory Partridge, his beard singed, lay on a deck chair with an umbrella providing shade. He only groaned.

 “Now don’t address me that way, Emory. I was so looking forward to helping to run our own country. How this could happen is beyond me. Now, I suppose we will have to start over.”

 Emory Partridge swallowed, then finally spoke. “Do not worry, Edith. I shall recover. I shall also remember this day very well....”

***

 The next morning, Solo emerged from the shack first. Illya Kuryakin sat on a blanket a discreet distance away, eating a piece of fruit for breakfast. He waved slightly at the American.

 Rita Verde came out and saw both men. “I have the feeling this is going to be good-bye.”

 Solo turned back to her. “Everything is back to normal, I guess.”

 “Napoleon, last night was wonderful. But it’s obvious you have work. And I still have mine. Probably not the strongest base for a relationship.”

 “I suppose not.”

 “Here,” Rita said, reaching into her pocket.

 “What are you doing?”

 Rita said nothing but took his left hand and put a gold ring on the pinkie.

 “My ex-finance had kind of small hands. I don’t think it’d fit your ring finger, but I think it’ll make a nice pinkie ring.”

 “Rita, you don’t--”

 “Too many memories, the bad kind. I was hoping it might represent some good ones for you.”

 Solo said nothing, instead he bent over and kissed her.

 “Rita, you’re a special person, with all you’re doing. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

 “You and your friend are the same way in your line of work.”

 “Well, like I said, we’re not exactly chums.”

 “Men -- got to repress those emotions, don’t you? OK, I surrender.”

 They kissed once more, then Solo turned and began to walk off. He reached Kuryakin, who began walking without comment. The American turned back once more, seeing that Rita was still watching. Then the agents departed without further comment.

***

 The next day, on the long flight from Rio to New York, Solo and Kuryakin again sat together in the crowded coach compartment. Kuryakin peered over at Solo, noticing the American kept looking at the new ring.

 “I would say the affair turned out well,” the Russian said.

 “Hmmm? Oh, yes, the affair. I suppose so.” Solo paused. “You did a very good job back there. Maybe we’ll be assigned to work together again sometime.”

 “Perhaps,” Kuryakin said.

 ***

 By the time they had the appointment with Alexander Waverly, barely more than 48 hours had passed. But it seemed more like a month.

 “Sit down, gentlemen,” Waverly said, once more not looking up while scanning papers on the round table.

 “Our report, sir,” Solo said, putting the document in front of the U.N.C.L.E. chief.

 “I’ll give this a read-through later,” Waverly said, finally looking at the two. “Based on the preliminary dispatches, it would seem you put an end to something that had the potential to be very nasty.”

 For Solo, an image of the dead boy flashed briefly in his mind. “Yes, it was already turning nasty, sir.”

 “Quite. If I have any questions, I’ll let you both know.”

 “Thank you, sir,” Kuryakin said.

 “Oh, by the way, next week, I’m trying a little experiment. We thought we might pair some enforcement agents. You won’t work in pairs on every assignment, but primarily you would work with the same person on most missions. Given how this affair turned out, would either of you have any objections to being paired with the other?”

 “Uh, no sir,” Solo said.

 “That would be a satisfactory arrangement,” Kuryakin said.

 “Of course, given present politics, there might be some comments made about an American teamed with a Soviet. You’re quite sure that won’t be a distraction?

 “Well, I always thought U.N.C.L.E. tried to be above that sort of politics,” Solo said.

 “Yes, quite. Good. Take a couple of days off, gentlemen. I’m sure I’ll have something for you when you get back.”

 The two men looked at each other briefly, then walked out of the office without a word. Waverly looked up as the sliding door closed. Then, another door in his office opened and Elton Hemingway emerged.

 “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Waverly said, putting his pipe in his mouth.

 “Me?” Hemingway said. “I’m merely an unpaid consultant who provides free advice. It’s your decision, and you know it.”

 “Still, it’s a bit of a risk, you know.”

 “Alexander Waverly, it’s one of the best moves you’ve ever made and you know it.”

 “I wish I could say that.”

 “I will bet you a supper at one of New York’s most expensive restaurants that this arrangement will more than work out.”

 “All right. You have a bet. But don’t be saddened if you fail to collect.”

***

Epilogue

The Present

 Napoleon Solo saw Illya Kuryakin in the hallway on his way back from the shooting range in the basement.

 “I just got buzzed by Lisa Rogers. Mr. Waverly wants to see us.”

 “This portends a busier than average day, I suspect,” Kuryakin said.

 As they headed to Waverly’s office, they stopped suddenly. Waverly’s brother-in-law, Mr. Hemingway, had just emerged from the old fox’s office.

 “Uh-oh,” Solo said. “You don’t suppose he’s cooked up some kind of new test for U.N.C.L.E. enforcement personnel.”

 “I hope not,” Kuryakin said. “Getting shot at by Thrush was calm compared to the havoc he wreaked here last time.”

 “Ah gentlemen, long time no see,” Hemingway said cheerfully.

 “Good morning, Mr. Hemingway,” Mr. Solo said. “Is this visit business or pleasure?”

 “Definitely, pleasure. I’m in the process of  finally forcing my brother-in-law to honor a wager we made more than a decade ago. I must warn you, he mightn’t be in the best humor. He can be quite stingy, you know.”

 “I’ve been grilled by him about expense vouchers,” Solo said. “I think I know what you’re talking about. If you’ll excuse us.”

 The agents walked into Waverly’s office. Hemingway stood for a moment until the sliding door shut. Then, he turned and began to whistle as he headed toward the visitor’s exit.

                            THE END